Stephen King - Faithful

In a game last week, new citizen Manny Ramirez trotted out to his position carrying a small American flag. Tim Wakefield declined to go out to his tonight with a burp-rag over his shoulder, but maybe he should have; it was his first game as a new dad, and what better place to celebrate than the Trop, where he’s never been beaten?

As for the Yankees, they’re on the West Coast, so I can go to bed safe in the knowledge that we’re at least tied for first place.

First thing in the morning, I walk down the driveway to the road for the paper, pull it out of the box and unfold the front page. The header’s in red—PERFECT GAME FOR RANDY JOHNSON; YANKS LOSE IN 11. I laugh and head back to the house. It’s already a good day.

Tonight it’s Schilling versus Rob Bell, just brought up from triple-A. Bell’s all over the place and Schilling’s solid. It’s tied 1–1 in the third when Johnny goes deep, and a fan makes a nice barehanded catch of it in the right-field stands. Of course, there’s no one near him to interfere. Later Don will announce the paid attendance as 13,690, but the Trop looks even emptier than last night.

Two batters later, Bell is 3-0 to Ortiz and throws too nice of a strike. David has the big green light and doubles, adding to his league-leading total. Bell falls behind Manny with two down and first base open, but Lou decides to pitch to him, even though Manny hit a 390-foot fly to dead center his first time up. After Bell throws one to the backstop on the fly, Manny hits a 420-foot homer to dead center, and it’s 4–1.

After seven, Schilling gives way to Embree, who gets an out and then a Rocco Baldelli grounder to Bellhorn that should be the second out. Bellhorn bobbles it and throws to first. It’s a close play, but the ump calls Baldelli safe. Bellhorn’s puzzled; he thought he got him. It’s not until we’re well into the count on Aubrey Huff that a second replay shows that he did indeed get him. Huff then hits a nubber to the right side that Embree thinks he has a shot at. He doesn’t. Ortiz fields it and turns to throw the ball to Embree, but Embree’s brain has short-circuited, and he’s stopped. Bellhorn races over to cover but it’s too late. Tino Martinez flies to center, advancing Baldelli to third, and with runners on the corners and two out, Francona goes to Foulke.

It’s one of Bill James’s pet theorems that the most important at-bat often isn’t in the ninth, so there’s no reason to hold off bringing in your closer. In this case, it’s a no-brainer: Foulke’s a better pitcher than Embree, and all we’re asking him for are four outs. On a 3-2 count, Robert Fick hits a smash off Ortiz’s chest that ricochets into foul ground. Ortiz scrambles after it, and, unlike Embree, Foulke hustles over to cover and makes the play to end the inning.

Foulke throws a one-two-three ninth, and that’s the game, another uneventful win. Besides the two homers, the only play to savor was Pokey ranging to the right-field side of second to steal a hit from Geoff Blum, and Pokey’s played so well that we’re almost used to that kind of highlight. And used to winning this kind of game: a quality start, just enough hitting for a cushion, then a shaky setup and a solid close. I suppose I shouldn’t complain about the lack of drama.

Later, checking my e-mail, I come across a story that says the Yankees are dropping Cracker Jack from their concession stands, going instead with Crunch ’N Munch, which they say tastes better (and still comes in a box). George, you’re insane.

Yanks won, O’s won, so the East remains the same. Lieber looked good, which is a worry. Contreras is iffy, so the Yanks still don’t have a real number five guy, but if Brown and Vazquez and Lieber throw as well as they have, they’ll stick around. At some point the O’s hitters are going to fall into a slump, and their pitching won’t carry them.

More injury woes. Williamson, who’s been complaining of soreness in his elbow for a few weeks, finally gets it checked out. Bill Mueller’s knee was hurting him again last night, so he’s flown back to Boston for an MRI. And Manny’s at DH again because of “a tender groin.” This is turning into the photo negative of last year, when everybody was healthy.

The Sox won last night and so, out on the Left Coast, did the Yankees, so Boston maintains its half-game fingerhold on the top spot. It’s far too early to worry about who’s in first (although never too early to worry about who’s on first), but it’s important to keep pace, and so far we’re doing that. I stand by my belief—or maybe it’s an intuition—that the wild-card team won’t come out of the AL East this year, but if the race were over today, the Yankees would be that team, beating the White Sox in the Central Division for the spot by a mere half a game. Anaheim—the team the Yankees beat last night, and one the Sox have yet to play—has the best record in baseball, at 26-13.

The Red Sox, not far behind at 24-16, have cobbled together a winning team—and, perhaps just as important, a winning chemistry—out of what amounts to spare parts, and I have to wonder what happens when Trot and Nomar come back (in last night’s pregame show, Theo Epstein said they were both getting close). The question isn’t whether or not they’re good enough to play for the Red Sox; that’s a no-brainer. The real question is how quickly they can get up to speed, and who goes where once they do. I think that the original plan was for Pokey Reese to play second and Mark Bellhorn to ride the bench, but Bellhorn has been clutch for the Sox during the first seven weeks of the season. Not spectacular, like Manny Ramirez, who’s currently batting something like one point for every day of the year, but clutch just the same. So who rides the pine when Nomar comes back? Probably it will be Bellhorn, but I hate to lose his bat (and his discerning eye at the plate). And while I won’t miss Kevin Millara bit in right field—he made another one of those absurd shoestring attempts last night, during Schilling’s rocky first inning—I am anxious about how quickly Trot and Nomar can ramp up their bats.

No matter. On to the important stuff. Baseball is a great game because you can multitask in so many ways and never miss a single pitch. I find I can read two pages of a book during each commercial break, for instance, which adds up to four an inning—more if there’s a pitching change. Thus it’s sometimes possible to read as many as forty pages a game, although it’s usually less, because there are always bathroom breaks and fridge runs.

Then there’s the Face Game. I play this by keeping an eye on the faces of the spectators behind home plate. Some nights I’ll run a ten-point Nose-Picking Competition, which can be played solitaire or with a friend (you get the odd innings, your friend the even ones). Ten is a good number to play to in this game, I’ve found, but when playing Cell Phone, you have to play to at least twenty-one, because these days almost everyone has one of those annoying little puppies. (“Hi, hon, I’m at the ballpark…. What? Oh, not much, Rays are down by three…I hear people whispering ‘Dead team walking’ under their breath… it’s a little spooky… Bring home a quart of milk?… sure, okay, call you later… gotta pick my nose on national TV first… okay, love you too… bye.”) And last night—remember, I never lost the thread of the game during this, that’s the beauty of baseball—I had this wonderful idea for a story. What if a guy watches a lot of baseball games on TV, maybe because he’s a shut-in or an invalid (or maybe because he’s doing a book on the subject, poor schmuck), and one night he sees his best friend from childhood, who was killed in a car crash, sitting in one of the seats behind the backstop? Yow! And the kid is still ten! He never claps or cheers (never picks his nose or talks on his cell phone, for that matter), just sits there and watches the game…or maybe he’s watching the main character of the story, right through the TV. After that the protagonist sees him every night at every game, sometimes at Fenway, sometimes at Camden Yards, sometimes at the CreepyDome up in Toronto, but every time there are more people the poor freaked-out guy knew, sitting all around him: this guy’s dead friends and relatives, all sitting in the background at the ballpark. I could call the story “Spectators.” I think it’s a very nasty little idea.